


Land of Blood and Angels

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Character Death, Corpses, Crime Scenes, F/F, Humanstuck, M/M, Mild Gore, Multi, Murder, Sexual Content, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:25:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Tavros Nitram, and on your first day as assistant detective you get thrown onto a double homicide of two of the biggest names on the silver screen. But as you soon discover, the case runs deeper than a simple crime of passion. It appears there is a new gang in Los Angeles, one that has no qualms destroying anything that gets in the way of what it wants. And what it wants is the whole damn city.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Move On Up a Little Higher

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic. Please be gentle.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _One a-these morning, soon one morning_   
>  _I'm gonna lay down my cross, get me a crown_   
>  _Soon one evening, late in the evening_   
>  _Late in the evening, I'm going home to live on high_

“Alright, you useless bags of trash, I’d like to introduce you all to our newest assistant detective, Tavros Nitram.”  
You scramble to your feet. The Chief of Police shoots you a glare that nearly knocks you over.  
“Nitram, meet your partner, Miss Pyrope. It would be far too unrealistic for me to hope that you’ll keep her in line so I’ll just say good luck, and don’t fuck this up. I just got word of a murder scene in the penthouse suite of 413 Oak. I’m putting you two on it. Get the hell out of here.”  
Your new partner grabs your arm and drags you out of the room. You struggle to keep up as she dashes to the car and hops in the driver’s seat. It’s only after you’ve pulled out of the lot that you actually get a chance to talk.  
“Uh, hello, Miss Pyrope. It’s really an honor to be working with you.”  
She grins.  
“It really is. I’m the best homicide detective this side of the Rockies.”  
And it was true. She’s solved every case ever thrown her way. You’ve always admired her, but you also find her a little unnerving. There is such a thing as enjoying your work a little too much, especially in this line of employment. Still, you’re sure that under her tutelage you’ll improve your sleuthing skills significantly and eventually become a full-fledged detective yourself.  
“Are you married, Nitram?”  
The question takes you off guard.  
“N-no, not married.”  
“You are pretty young. Girlfriend?”  
“No, ma’am.”  
“Why not?”  
You squirm in your seat, watching the neighbourhood whiz by.  
“No reason. I just don’t.”  
“Don’t call me ma’am. I’m a pig, not a schoolteacher. It’s just Terezi, or Pyrope if you want to be formal. I couldn’t care less.”

You pull up at 413 Oak and climb out of the car. It’s a lavish apartment building in the nicest part of downtown LA, a veritable beehive of the rich and famous oozing the sweet honey of luxury. You can almost taste it when you walk through the front doors. As can your partner, quite literally. You’ve heard about her synesthesia. It’s an odd condition where the wires in your brain get crossed and your senses get mixed up with each other. In her case, different colours have a specific smell and taste. Just one of the things exceptional about her.  
The pair of you take the elevator up to the penthouse suite. When the doors open, you’re greeted with the familiar face of Officer Egbert. Despite the grim circumstances, you flash each other a smile.  
“Tavros! Didn’t know you’d be here. Congrats on the promotion, by the way.”  
He shoots a nervous glance at your partner.  
“Pyrope. Glad you’re here. This one’s gonna be big. I think you’re the only one who can handle this.”  
“Let’s cut to the chase. Who’s the stiff?”  
“Stiffs, actually. There are two dead.”  
“Ooh, a double homicide! That’s twice as exciting.”  
“It gets worse. The victims? Feferi Peixes and Aradia Megido.”  
Your stomach drops. Feferi Peixes is one of the biggest names on the silver screen. Her name has been up in lights on every theatre in the country. Aradia, while less well known, made quite a name for herself starring as the plucky female sidekick in a popular series of adventure flicks. And now they’re both dead, and you have to help figure out why. This is turning out to be a lot more than you signed up for.  
Miss Pyrope taps her cane on the marble floor.  
“Officer Egbert, tell me everything you know.”  
“Peixes’ housekeeper says that she arrived here at 8 in the morning and found the two dead on the ground, just where they are now. My beat runs this street and we’ve spoken a few times. I happened to be standing on the corner at the time and she ran out and told me what happened.”  
“Why didn’t she call the police from the apartment?”  
“She said the phone line was cut. When I got up here, it was.”  
“Is she still here?”  
“Yeah, over in the kitchen. She’s pretty shaken up.”  
“Thank you, officer.”  
She swiftly turns to you.  
“I’ll go speak to the housekeeper. You get the coroner’s report.”  
Your partner dashes off into the other room. Egbert nods at you and walks off. Bracing yourself for the scene ahead, you step into the living room. Lying on the purple carpet are two dead bodies that you can hardly recognize. People look different when they’ve been shot to death. They’re wearing fine evening gowns as if they’d just come home from some high brow event when they met their untimely demise. You’re struck with a sense of loss when you think about how much more they could have accomplished. Admittedly, you would have felt that way if they were nameless nobodies. A life ended too soon is a most unfortunate tragedy. That’s why you got into this line of work. If you can’t stop people from doing bad things, the next best course of action is bringing them to justice.  
The coroner is standing idly nearby. He’s wearing sunglasses, which you find rather odd. You’ve seen him a few times before, as he works closely with the LAPD. However, you’ve never spoken to him. He strikes you as one of those people who thinks far too highly of themselves. It could be the impeccable blonde hair or the fancy tailored suits, or possibly those things in combination with his decidedly messy line of work. But when you think about it, it’s mostly his devil-may-care attitude. If he gives one damn about the dead, he sure doesn’t show it.  
You approach him, careful to keep your feet far away from the bodies.  
“Are you Dr. Strider?”  
“No, I’m an innocent bystander who stopped by to get a good look at the celebrity stiffs. Maybe take some photos for the scrapbook.”  
“I’m going to assume you’re being sarcastic, and I don’t appreciate it.”  
“I don’t appreciate your assumption that I’m being anything but serious. This is murder and it’s serious business. You should take it seriously.”  
“Wait, uh, that’s not… What?”  
He grabs your hand in a vice grip and shakes it vigorously.  
“Dave Strider. Coroner.”  
“Erm, Tavros Nitram. Assistant detective.”  
“Who are you assisting?”  
“Uh, Pyrope. Terezi. Detective Pyrope.”  
“Good fucking luck with that one, kid.”  
“I-I’m not a kid. You’re barely older than me!”  
“You sure? You look 12 to me.”  
“I’m 19!”  
“I had no idea they let children join the force.”  
You manage to wrench your hand away from being forcibly shaken any longer.  
“Look, first of all, I think you’re cocky. Let’s put that fact on the table where we can both see it. You may be a little bit older than me, but that gives you no right to patronize me. Effective police work is built on a basis of trust and cooperation and if you refuse to provide either or those things then we might as well lock up that table lamp for double homicide and call it a good day’s work.”  
“Slow down there, Nancy Drew. There’s nothing I value more than the legitimacy of fondling dead bodies for a living. From now on, you’ll have my complete and utter compliance to your unwavering titanium will. My devotion to this case and to yourself as my undeniable superior in the hierarchy of the law is downright matrimonial. Grab us some rings and a priest, Nancy, because I’m ready to spend the rest of my life bound to this holy union of justice.”  
“Um, that… Made me feel pretty uncomfortable. Can we just get to discussing the murder now?”  
“I thought you’d never ask.”  
“So… What killed them?”  
Strider glances down at the figures slumped unceremoniously on the bloodstained carpet.  
“Deadly firearms. Looks like an 8 mil to me, but I won’t know until I get the bodies back to the lab. Seems like Peixes got one right through the heart. Megido didn’t go down so easily. She took three bullets and still managed to drag herself along the floor to get to the phone.”  
You swallow hard.  
“Anything else?”  
“From the way they fell and the blood splatters on the carpet, it looks to me like their killer was standing over by the window and shot them when they came in the door.”  
“Oh.”  
“That means they had a key to the suite.”  
“I knew that. I’m not an idiot.”  
“Which means they knew Peixes rather well, or at least well enough to be able to acquire a key.”  
“I know how to do my job, Dr. Strider!”  
“Which means your unsub is a close friend or business partner, and that you should probably—“  
“Gah!”  
You strike a palm to your forehead. Strider’s face is as stoic as ever, but you damn well know that he’s laughing his ass off. You can almost see a hint of a smirk.  
“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Nitram.”  
“Sure.”  
You turn and begin walking towards the kitchen.  
“Hey,” calls Strider from behind you. “Aren’t you going to examine the bodies for yourself?”  
You look back at him over your shoulder.  
“Pyrope asked me to get your report, not to mess with the evidence. I’ll leave that to her.”  
“Get yourself some initiative, Nancy. You can’t expect everyone to be flawless.”  
“Not even you?”  
“Let’s not draw any untoward conclusions here. I’m certainly not everyone.”  
“You certainly aren’t.”  
You head off to the kitchen, where you find your partner looming over a frightened old woman.  
“Is there anyone you can think of who had a key to the apartment or had the opportunity to acquire one?”  
“Y-yes, a few people.”  
“Who?”  
She leans over on her cane expectantly.  
“Well, there was the director of her last movie. M-Mr. Ampora. He came over quite often.”  
You know in an instant that she’s talking about Eridan Ampora. He’s quite the prolific director, and he’s worked with Feferi Peixes for quite a few years now. They make a very profitable partnership. You have no idea why he would ever want her dead.  
Pyrope cocks her head to the side.  
“Was he only her director?”  
“I-I don’t know what you’re suggesting.”  
“You know very well what I’m suggesting.”  
She waggles her eyebrows. Suggestively.  
“I have n-no idea, detective.”  
“Hmph.”  
Your partner almost looks… disappointed.  
“Is there anyone else?”  
“Yes. Captor. Sollux Captor.”  
You’ve heard of him. He’s only one of the richest men in L.A. He wasn’t born into money. He earned it through careful investments and playing the system like a finely tuned instrument. Now he produces films and donates ridiculous amounts of money to charity. He seems like a good guy to you. Certainly not the type to commit murder. But you never really can tell those things, can you.  
“And that’s it?”  
The housekeeper hesitates.  
“Yes. That’s it.”  
Pyrope surprises you by not pressing the issue. She gives the woman a comforting pat on the shoulder and dismisses her.  
“What’d you get from the coroner, Nitram?”  
“Well, it took some wrestling to get him to actually talk to me, but he said that they were both shot by someone standing over by the window. With an 8 mil.”  
For the first time that day, Pyrope’s smile falls.  
“Jesus. That better damn well not mean what I think it does.”


	2. In the Mood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In the mood, that's what he told me_   
>  _In the mood, and when he told me_   
>  _In the mood, my heart was skippin'_   
>  _It didn't take me long to say "I'm in the mood now"_

Your name is Kanaya Maryam, and as you take a sip of your gin cocktail at the bar of the 8 Ball Lounge you begin to wonder how you ever managed to get yourself involved with this crowd. You came to LA with dreams of a career in fashion. Your potential was obvious, but you were sorely lacking in funds. But suddenly a benefactor appeared, a girl barely older than you but swimming in family cash. Apparently, she was set to take over the business, and already had a significant amount of cash to spare. She said she knew you would be a “good investment”. You skyrocketed to fame and fortune faster than you could handle, which you suppose is just the nature of this town. It didn’t hurt that your rivals fell victim to various mysterious illnesses and injuries far more often than circumstance would allow. It was around then that you realize that your investor was perhaps less law-abiding than you’d first thought. But it wasn’t exactly a problem. You can’t really complain about the methods that got your clothes onto the red carpet.  
You remember the day that you watched Feferi Peixes wear your gown to a charity ball like it was yesterday. Now the very same figure that wore your dress was lying on a cold stone slab. Not to mention it was only a month ago that Aradia Megido had worn a flowing red number of your own design to the premiere of her latest adventure flick. The pit in your stomach grows heavier. You take a long sip of your cocktail. It feels as if your dresses were the very same black spot that marked the death of pirates in the novels your investor is so fond of.  
Speak of the devil. There she was now, though you didn’t need to turn to know that she had entered. The whole joint hushes up in an instant, with only the smooth sound of the band filling the silence. You can even hear her heels clacking on the cold hardwood floor. Those heels are crimson red, the only colour in her otherwise all-black ensemble. That is, unless you count the significant amount of skin exposed by her low-cut dress. She is followed by her incredibly bulky bodyguard, a mass of muscle squeezed into a three piece suit with black hair nearly as long as flowing as his employer’s. He’s one of those people who, despite his size and significant threat factor, manages to slip right into the background. That is, unless he is required to employ a more specific kind of intimidation.  
As she slips into the bar stool next to you, the noise in the lounge slowly returns to normal. The bartender places a drink in front of her without a word exchanged between them. It’s a classic Manhattan, garnished with a plump maraschino cherry. She leans across the bar and takes a long, drawn out sip, her eyes grazing over your figure.  
“Maryam,” she says, putting her drink back down on the bar.  
“Serket,” you reply.  
She snaps her fingers, her nails manicured and lacquered a deep shade of cerulean, and her bodyguard quickly presents her with a cigarette in a long black holder. She brings it to her mouth as he fumbles with a sleeve of matches, managing to break half the pack in the process of trying to light one. On his sixth try, she reaches over, snatches the sleeve, and lights the damn thing herself. She mutters something under her breath about useless clumsy meatheads and takes a long drag.  
“I would offer you a smoke, but you’ve never been one to dirty your lungs, have you?”  
Serket smirks and exhales a stream of smoke in your general direction. You quirk an eyebrow and take another sip of your drink. There’s no point trying to ask her what you want to know. If she means to say it, she will. And you already know that she will. It’s written all over her face.  
“Something bothering you, Maryam? Not planning on talking to me today?”  
She leans closer to you, but you keep your eyes straight ahead.  
“Was there something I did wrong, hmm? Do tell.”  
You drain the last of your cocktail and gesture at the bartender. He brings you another of the same. You take a sip.  
“Look, you’ve got to talk to me here. Clearly I’ve done something to offend you. I can’t see how.”  
You slowly look over at her and raise your eyebrows. Serket frowns and straightens up, crushing her cigarette into a nearby ashtray and tossing away the holder.  
“Oh, you think I’m responsible for this whole mess, do you? I figured as much. Always blaming me. It’s not always my doing, you know. More often than not, but not always.”  
You smile a little despite your annoyance.  
“Like I’m supposed to believe that you had nothing to do with a murder that publicized. Even if you didn’t, you’d find a way to get yourself involved. People in your line of business are supposed to stay out of the spotlight. You know what they say about light in dark places.”  
You reach over and pluck the cherry from her neglected Manhattan. As you wrap your lips around it and pop it off the stem, the smile reappears on Serket’s sharp face.  
“I’m sure all that light means to you is illumination. But trust me, I know my way around the light,” She leans in closer, her nicotine-laced breath on your face.  
“It only makes the shadows deeper.”  
You pause for a moment, glancing around.  
“Look, I need you to tell me what really happened. Not here. Too many people. I know you couldn’t care less about stealth or subtlety, but it would give me some peace of mind.”  
She nods, takes you by the arm, and leads you to the back room. When the door closes behind you, only the muffled sound of the band manages to seep through. She sits you down on a blue velvet chesterfield.  
“Alright,” you say. “Explain.”  
Vriska looks into your eyes, the twinge in her lips betraying the slightest hint of worry.  
“I know that you won’t believe me when I tell you this, because I don’t exactly have the best track record with honesty. But I had nothing to do with those murders.”  
You scan her face for any hint of a lie. Surprisingly, she seems to be telling the truth. Yet you suspect that it is not the whole truth.  
“It’s not that hard to draw the connection to you,” you say. “Peixes had been involved in a not-so-secret relationship with Eridan Ampora, and Ampora still owes various debts to you. Maybe he forgot to pay up, or threatened to reveal something to the police. It all follows easily from there.”  
Serket frowns and looks down at her hands.  
“The connection is really far too easy to make, isn’t it. It almost seems like… No, that’s  
stupid. But you know me. You know that I wouldn’t be that sloppy.”  
She looks back up at you and grins.  
“And you definitely know that if I were involved, I’d be bragging about it.”  
You grin back, quirking an eyebrow.  
“That’s a good point.”  
A sudden realization crosses your mind. Your smile falls and you grip her hands in yours.  
“Please tell me that you won’t get yourself blamed for this. I know you enjoy your bad reputation, but if the police draw the same connections that I did…”  
Serket squeezes your hands reassuringly, leaning in closer. You can smell the smoke on her breath, and you’re sure she can smell the booze on yours. You hope that the warmth spreading through your body is just the effects of the gin. But as she releases her hands from your grip and places one gently on your exposed thigh, you begin to suspect otherwise.  
“Kanaya, you worry too much about me. My luck hasn’t run out yet, and it certainly won’t be any time soon. I know what I’m doing. I just need you to trust me.”  
“You do realize that you’re asking me to trust a career criminal.”  
She chuckles, her hand slipping up your leg to the hem of your short dress.  
“I’m beginning to doubt that you’ll ever trust me, Maryam. But it seems to me like suspicion has never stopped you before…”  
Her face is now inches from yours. Your breath is shaky, and you try desperately to look anywhere but into her eyes. Yet they catch you anyways, deep blue with spider lashes and a dash of smoke. She’s smiling. She’s always smiling at you. Maybe she thinks it funny that someone as straight-laced as you would ever be close friends with someone like her. But as the hand not currently resting on your thigh reaches up to curl around the back of your neck, you realize that friendship is not currently on her mind.  
Your eyes flutter shut as her lips meet yours. They are softer than you’d imagined. After a moment of mental buffering, you realize that you have frozen in place. You’d never thought beyond this particular moment and you currently have no plan as to how to proceed. But perhaps you can figure this one out as you go along. Tentatively, you begin to return Vriska’s kiss. You can feel her smile around your lips. Slow and steady, you wrap your hands behind her neck and pull yourself closer. Her hand slips further up your thigh and underneath the skirt of your dress. You let out a small yelp of surprise, making her chuckle and kiss you harder. Your fingers tangle in her hair and you open your mouth ever so slightly. She accepts this as an invitation to trail her tongue across your bottom lip, and you catch it with yours.  
You feel the heat that had spread through your body begin to gather somewhere else entirely. Your cheeks flush. It seems as if she can tell the source of your embarrassment, as the hand on your thigh grips the skirt of your dress and begins to slide it upwards. You both pull away for the first time since your lips met, and your dresses are on the floor in seconds. You barely have time to worry about wrinkling the fabric before she has pushed you down onto the velvet cushions of the couch, her blonde hair dangling and gently brushing your cheeks. Her eyes trail up and down your figure and her grin grows wider.  
“Vriska, wait,” you say. She now wears only her lingerie, which is lacy, blue, and barely there. Her figure is slender, her curves gentle, her chest slight but certainly more than adequate. “The only thing separating us from a bar full of people is a single door. Do you really want to run the risk of... getting caught?”  
Serket strokes her fingers down your neck to the small gap between your breasts.  
“It’s funny that you say that, Kanaya,” she mutters, her hand trailing across your stomach and lingering at your hips. “You’re always the one accusing me of not getting my priorities straight, yet this level of privacy was more than adequate for dangerously sensitive information, wasn’t it?”  
You grab her hand before it travels any lower and scowl at her.  
“You know it’s not the same.”  
“Of course it’s not. You care more about your precious modesty than keeping me out of prison. I accept that about you.”  
“I-- It’s not like that at all! God, you’re insufferable.”  
Your hands are tangled in her hair again as she leans down and presses her lips to your chin, your neck, your collarbone. You begin to wonder if you can even handle this level of contact when her fingers slip between your thighs and a desperate moan slips through your lips.  
“This... This is...” you attempt to say.  
“This is the first time I’ve done this.”  
To your disappointment, Vriska retracts her hands. However, your pleasure returns when you realize that she needed her hands to remove her bra. As she tosses it to the ground and you sit up to do the same, she begins to speak.  
“First time with another woman?” she asks with a sly look on her face.  
She pushes you back down and cups her hands around your full breasts, fingers brushing across your erect nipples and sending lightning bolts of pleasure down your spine.  
“First time...” You let out a small gasp as one of her hands trails down across your hips to the waist of your jade green panties.  
“With anyone.”  
Vriska’s eyebrows shoot up. She was clearly not expecting that answer.  
“What, a girl like you? Still a virgin? You’re kidding me.”  
Your cheeks flush and you look away. Your eyes happen to fall exactly where Vriska’s bodyguard has been standing this entire time. Suddenly, all of you is blushing. You sit up straight and grab the nearest thing to pull to your chest in a desperate attempt to cover up. That thing happens to be Vriska and does not improve your intense embarrassment in any way.  
“Has he been standing there this entire time?!” you squeak.  
Vriska glances over at him and laughs.  
“Oh yeah. Zahhak. Forgot about him.”  
She shrugs and curls her fingers around the waistband of your underwear. She is about to unclothe you completely when you grab her shoulders and try to shake some sense into her.  
“Vriska, what are you doing?!”  
She raises an eyebrow.  
“Taking your panties off. What are you doing?”  
You jerk your head in the bodyguard’s direction. He is sweating profusely and staring steadily at the wall behind you. It almost seems like he’s vibrating slightly, but you’re probably imagining things.  
“Oh, you’re not comfortable with him in here?” Vriska asks. “I always forget when he’s in the room. You could just pretend that he’s part of the furniture. That’s what I do.”  
You give her a look like she just grew a second head.  
“That’s not going to happen.”  
“Alright, if you insist.”  
She turns her head to face him.  
“Hey, meathead. Get out.”  
He nods once and scoots out the door.


	3. It's Too Soon to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And though, though_   
>  _I'll cry when he's gone_   
>  _And I won't die and I'll live on_   
>  _If it's so, it's too soon_   
>  _Way too soon to know_

You stop being Kanaya Maryam just in time to be Tavros Nitram as he reaches the door of Eridan Ampora’s massive estate, right on the the heels of Detective Pyrope. You hang a few feet behind as she knocks three times on the ornate double doors, painted a deep shade of violet. A minute passes, and Pyrope appears prepared to kick the doors down when a suited butler with a clear stick up his ass finally opens them.  
“LAPD,” Terezi barks right in the man’s moustache-laden face, flashing her badge. “We would like to speak with Eridan Ampora immediately.”  
The butler remains surprisingly unfazed. “He is currently resting in the sun room. He is not expecting visitors.”  
“Listen, fancy, I don’t care how rich or famous your employer is, and I certainly don’t care about whether or not he’s expecting us. We’re here to speak with him and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Now where the hell is the rat bastard hiding?”  
Terezi seizes the butler and barges through the front doors, forcing the startled man to lead the way. You hurry behind, keeping a bit of a distance so as to avoid your partner’s wildly swinging cane. You’re not even sure why she has the thing, it’s not like she has any kind of limp or injury. You figure that it might just be for occasional drubbings. The thought makes you slightly nervous. After traipsing through a few long, gaudily decorated hallways, you finally arrive at the aforementioned sun room. It is painted bright yellow with massive windows taking up the bulk of the western wall. Various paintings of obvious value are sprinkled throughout the room, as well as a few ostentatious sculptures and a grand piano of such a size to suggest a form of overcompensation.  
A man lies in repose on a chaise lounge with a stack of papers in his hand, scouring over the text with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. His dark hair with a lone white streak is slicked back as if he has just come out of the shower; this theory is supported by the plush purple bathrobe wrapped around his thin frame. Said bathrobe also happens to be just a little too short and reveals far too much of his apparently hairless physique than you would have ever wanted to see.  
“Eridan Ampora!” yells Terezi, snapping the silence of the room clean in half and nearly knocking the man out of his chair. He scrambles to his feet and attempts to gather a sense of composure. He finally manages a semblance of dignity and an expression of contempt settles on his sharp features.  
“Wilkins, what did I tell you about letting people into the house without my permission? This is completely unacceptable.”  
He speaks with a thick eastern european accent, his “v”s an “w”s barely discernible from one another.  
“I do apologize, sir. Do you want me to--”  
“What I want you to do is get out of my sight!”  
The butler strides out of the sunroom, clearly used to Ampora’s brand of employment. One he has left, the director looks the both of you over with a judgemental eye.  
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re here. Especially the lack of sensitivity for a man in mourning, that certainly doesn’t strike me as anything out of the ordinary for you people.”  
The venom in his voice strikes you in the gut.  
“Mr. Ampora,” Terezi begins. “We would like to ask you a few questions about the murders of Aradia Megido and Feferi Peixes.”  
On the mention of Peixes’ name, a pained expression flickers across the man’s face. But it passes quickly, and he gestures for the both of you to take a seat in a pair of cushy armchairs. He sits himself back down on the chaise lounge and drops the pile of papers onto the coffee table in front of him. You can see now that the papers are actually a script: ‘Princess of the Sea’.  
“It was written for her,” he says. Must have seen you looking. “We haven’t started filming yet, but we aren’t recasting. It wouldn’t be right.”  
You glance away, feeling a strange sort of guilt for so clearly invading into someone’s grief. But there is no reason to feel bad. Mourning does not mean innocence; you know that much of murderers. And you wouldn’t put it past this one. He has a look in his eyes that suggests he has not always lived in luxury, one that hints of a past that he has long since buried. No, this man is clearly the prime suspect.  
“Where were you on the night of September 5th?” asks Pyrope, leaning forward with a predatory look behind her cat-eye glasses.  
“I was...” He sits his elbows on the coffee table and rests his head in his hands, sighing. “No point in lying. I was at the 8 Ball Lounge.”  
Terezi’s eyes go dark. You have a hunch that this helped confirm some sort of theory of hers. Not like she told you anything about it. She hasn’t said anything to you of much worth so far. You’re beginning to wonder whether you really enjoy working with Pyrope, as she often makes you feel like you have nothing of worth to say. But then again, you are the rookie. A storied detective like her isn’t even obligated to give you the time of day.  
“And who were you with that night?” she asks, her voice laden with suspicion.  
“No one.”  
“Drinking alone, were you? Pre-emptive mourning?”  
Ampora scowls.  
“How incredibly callous. But if you’re actually interested, it was a sort of grieving. I was... recovering from a difficult situation.”  
“And what situation was that?”  
You squirm in your seat. Questioning suspects isn’t as fun as you were expecting. Well, you’ve clearly asked people questions before, but it was really just witnesses. This situation is simply uncomfortable. For you, at least. Pyrope seems to be enjoying herself immensely.  
“I was hoping that we wouldn’t have to delve into the personal details, but I suppose it was inevitable.”  
Ampora removes his glasses and folds them up on the coffee table, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his other hand.  
“Peixes...” He stops himself. “Feferi had just... ended our relationship. I was having some trouble handling it.”  
Terezi can barely contain her smirk. She clearly called that one.  
“Why did she leave you?”  
He fixes her with a death glare, clearly shocked that she would dare to ask that question.  
“I don’t see how its relevant,” he grinds out between his teeth. “But she left me for another man. Are you happy now? Was that the vital puzzle piece to click this case together? You better damn well hope it was, because I’m done here. If you want to speak with me again, you’ll have to get through my lawyers first.”  
He leaps to his feet.  
“Wait--” you yelp, standing up with him. “Please, Mr. Ampora. Its very important that you give us all the information you can, s-so we can find the person who killed Feferi Peixes and Aradia Megido and make them pay for their crimes. You cared about her a lot, didn’t you, sir? Don’t you care enough to help?”  
Ampora stops dead in his tracks. You see an expression on his face that was clearly one he meant to hide, an expression that betrays the loss that he tried so desperately to bury beneath layers of condescension and apathy.  
“You have to understand,” he murmurs, staring at the script on the coffee table. “She may have hurt me, but I would never... I would never hurt her. All that mattered to me...”  
He stops, bringing a hand to his forehead.  
“I do have one thing. Something that might help you out.”  
He snatches his glasses off of the table, smoothly sliding the frames back onto his face.  
“Megido had been seeing Sollux Captor off-and-on since the beginning of her career. Not exactly common knowledge, but that’s not all. Captor also happened to be the man that Peixes left me for. “

 

You are now Eridan Ampora. You sit on your bed and stare at your open gun case. It holds a shiny nickel plated pistol with pearl grips, and in the bright light it looks almost white. You reach down and grab it, double checking to see if it’s loaded. It is. Feeling the weight of it in your hands makes your palms sweat. Aren’t guns supposed to make you feel safe? Perhaps. You bought it for that reason, after all. Once you borrow money from the mob, getting a weapon is just common sense. But it brings you no peace of mind. The pistol in your hands was built only to kill. That is its purpose, and as your fingers curl around the handle you wonder whether you have the guts. You’ve never had any delusions about your cowardice, despite the face you put on around others. Then again, ever since she died, you’ve felt numb to just about everything.  
The weapon in your hands brings back a sense of clarity. Your fingers grip the handle so hard it turns your knuckles white. For the first time since the murder, you know exactly what you intend to do. You’ve never once shot your gun outside of a range. But the moment you do, the first blood your weapon will draw will be that of the man who killed Feferi Peixes. However, it will not be today. You place the gun back in its case and shut the lid tight. Before you pull the trigger, there’s someone you have to speak to first. In fact, she has invited you to meet her tomorrow night. She better damn well have something to say.


	4. Trade Winds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Down where the trade winds play, down where you lose the day_   
>  _We found a new world where paradise starts_   
>  _We traded hearts way down where the trade winds play_

Months in the past, but not many...

You are now the Forger. Your name is unimportant. You haven’t used your real name since... Well, it’s been a long time. You’ve gone through so many aliases you hardly remember which one you’re using at any give time. Right now you’re James Ellis, chartered accountant, with a wife, two kids, and a red Cadillac. At least you’ve got the Cadillac. You pull up next to the Tops Casino, a swanky place packed to the brim with patrons. Despite what many people may think, busy places are the best place for highly sensitive meetings. No one pays much attention to two people having a quiet conversation when they’re buried in a crowd.  
When you open the door, you are met with a wall of smoke and noise almost thick enough to be felt. Clearly, business is booming. You weave your way through the solid mass of gamblers and their arm candy until you break through to a small empty pocket in the back corner. There you find two men, suited in a dark shade of green, standing like pillars on either side of a small round table. Seated at that table is a woman, slender and vaguely oriental, wearing a long red dress that flows like water. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun with a few strands freed to frame her face. She brings a cigarette to her cherry lips and gestures for you to sit down across from her. After taking one last glance at her entourage, you take a tentative seat on the edge of the chair, prepared to make a quick escape if anything goes awry.  
“Forger,” she says with an accent that strikes you as not entirely legitimate. Perhaps affecting one gives her some sort of diplomatic advantage. You can’t exactly think of any at the moment.  
“Alright,” you say. “Let’s cut to the chase. You’re going to tell me what you want from me, I’m going to tell you how much it’ll cost, and you’re going to hand over half up front and the rest when the job is done. If you had anything else planned for this little visit, I’ll be leaving immediately.”  
The woman laughs, and the sound is almost predatory.  
“Oh, please. Are we not going to introduce ourselves first? But I suppose that is unnecessary for you. I already know exactly who you are, Forger. It is you who does not know who I am. Would you like to?”  
“Not necessary. I don’t care who my clients are. I only care about the job. You do have one, don’t you? I don’t appreciate people who waste my time.”  
“Ah, yes, your time is ever so valuable. But I am certain you have enough time for names?”  
“I already said, I don’t care about your name.”  
She chuckles again, her cheeks dimpling.  
“I never said anything about mine.”  
You pause, thinking for a second. A part of you is thinking that you shouldn’t waste another second in this place. But another part is tempted by her words. Work hasn’t come easy as of late. Sure, plenty of people still require your services. A little framing here, a little book cooking there, and the occasional breaking and entering when absolutely necessary. But lately much of your business has been sucked up by the growing influence of the Eights. Once folks are in with them, they’re in all the way. They wouldn’t dare employ your services even if they wanted to.  
Once upon a time, you were in with the feds. Crime scene analyst, plucked right out of university and on the road to being the best in the field. But then you got careless; let slip a bit of personal information to someone you should have known never to trust. You were dropped without a second thought. Hadn’t been there long enough to seal your place, so you were easily replaceable. At that point, you had two choices: go back home to Houston, or set off somewhere new. But Houston wasn’t home anymore, not really. Anyone you’d ever called your family had moved on to greener pastures. And in this day and age, greener pastures is the City of Angels. Though you could hardly show your face to your family now, being near them brings you a sense of comfort. So L.A. it was, and there you found your new line of employment.  
“Okay, I’ll bite. Let’s hear these names.”  
She laughs again, and this time it’s almost a cackle. Visions of fairy tale witches flash through your head, ones that lure children into houses of gingerbread and poison pretty girls with apples. The dark glint in her eyes doesn’t help matters.  
“I knew that you would bite. Or rather, he knew.”  
“Who is ‘he’?”  
“Ah, ah, ah. In due time, Forger.”  
She takes a long drag from her cigarette, clearly enjoying the suspense.  
“The first name is Serket.”  
Ah. The notorious matriarch of the organization that has caused you quite a few inconveniences. But a hard woman to touch.  
“What do you need from her?”  
“Oh, nothing from her. My employer wants her gone.”  
The idea takes a few seconds to sink into your brain. Vriska Serket. The Eights. Out of L.A. for good. It seems impossible. But the moment you begin to think about it, you begin to see a way, a slim possibility but a possibility none the less. It would take a lot of work. And a lot of blood. And far more than your usual fee.  
“I can do that.”  
“We know that you can. That is why we called you.”  
“You realize that this will be expensive.”  
“Oh, yes. That is another thing.”  
She grinds the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray at the center of the table.  
“This is not simply an offer of a single contract. We wish to employ you as full fledged member of our organization.”  
Her hungry eyes scan your features, waiting for a response.  
You could really use the money, but a sense of job security would be worth even more than that. But you have no idea who you would even be working for. Is it wise to hitch yourself blindly to a group you know nothing about? Surely not. Is it lucrative? No way of telling. Not unless you take the plunge.  
“I sense a feeling of trepidation in you, Forger. But there is no need to fret about choices. You do not have a choice.”  
You quirk an eyebrow.  
“Excuse me?”  
The woman leans across the table, her dress revealing far more cleavage than you would have ever asked for.  
“It is an absolute certainty that you are going to be working for us.”  
“And just how do you know that?”  
“That would be the second name we have for you.”  
Your hands clench into fists.  
“Alright. Shoot.”  
“Strider.”  
Suddenly, the air feels cold.  
“So you know my name. A lot of people do.”  
“David Strider.”  
You find yourself on your feet, your body shaking with fear or anger or some sort of violent combination of both. They can fuck with you, but by god they can’t fuck with your family. But what choice do you have now?  
You force yourself back into your seat, eyes locked on the ground. There is no choice. Not really. The one safe bet is jumping into the darkness.  
“Fuck, alright. I’m in.”


	5. Jack, You're Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When you got no more assurance_   
>  _Than a great big hunk o' lead_   
>  _If you don't respond to romance_   
>  _Jack, you're dead_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly recommend listening to this song while you read:   
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1NAUeL0D4SI

Your name is Tavros Nitram and you are currently alone in a room with two dead celebrities and one Dr. Dave Strider. Pyrope has sent you to get the full autopsy report, but apparently the second autopsy is still in progress. You try desperately to look anywhere but at the cold steel table where Dr. Strider is elbow deep in Aradia Megido’s ventral cavity. However, your eyes can’t seem to stray very far before snapping back to the gruesome scene in front of you. When the process began, you felt exceptionally uncomfortable being in the presence of a naked woman, no matter how dead she might be. But now that the flesh of her torso has been neatly peeled back to expose her organs to the harsh light of the autopsy room, you’re beginning to feel a lot less bashful and a lot more nauseous.  
“Nitram.”  
“Hmm, what?”  
“I said hand me the saw. I need you conscious here, man.”  
“I- I don’t think I should really be assisting you with this. I am not a trained medical professional--”  
“Oh, you’re right, how silly of me. Of course you would need a doctorate and years of schooling to be able to hand me the saw from that table.”  
You snatch the tool and put it in Strider’s latex-gloved hands, standing as far away from the body as possible.  
“What exactly are you doing with that?” you mutter.  
“What do you think, Nancy? Can you figure it out with your plucky intellect and uncanny sleuthing ability?”  
You squint at the corpse, and the first thing you notice is the jutting ribcage sticking out of its open torso.  
“Oh. Y-you’re going to... With the ribs.”  
“Eloquently said.”  
Strider’s fingers curl around the sternum, steadying the ribcage as he begins to saw through the sides. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to ignore the terrible sound of steel against bone for the long few minutes it takes to remove Megido’s chest plate and reveal her heart and lungs.  
However, you don’t dare to look again until the doctor shoves the saw back in your hands.  
“Put this back on the table and hand me the larger scalpel.”  
You do just that, and watch in morbid fascination as he slices off the tissue underneath the chest plate before placing it on a plastic covered cart next to him.  
“This right here,” says Strider as he points to a fleshy mass at the center of the corpse’s chest. “Is the pericardial sac. Contains the heart. As you can see from the clear wounds on either side, it’s been grazed by 2 bullets.”  
He slices through the sac and pokes around at the organ within. He then begins to describe the injuries in extensive detail. You start humming a little tune to yourself to try and prevent yourself from vomiting all over the cold linoleum floor. Your stomach is already doing acrobatic pirouettes.  
“... the inferior vena cava has been ripped open at the side, which would have caused serious internal bleeding that is seen in the pooling in the pericardial sac...”  
 _When you got no more assurance_  
 _Than a great big hunk o’ lead_  
 _If you don’t respond to romance_  
 _Jack, you’re dead_  
“... now pay attention here, because you never know when you’re going to have to remove a human heart from a corpse. We need to do this so that we can access the back of the dorsal cavity, which as you know is where the bullets would have ended up because of the lack of exit holes...”  
 _When a chick is smiling at you_  
 _Even though there’s nothing said_  
 _If you stand there like a statue_  
 _Jack, you’re dead_  
“... first, we sever the inferior vena cava, followed by the the pulmonary veins, the aorta, and the superior vena cava. This leaves the aortic arch intact, very important... is that Joe Jackson you’re humming?”  
 _You been always kickin'_  
 _But you stubbed your toes_  
 _When you ups and kicks the bucket_  
 _Just like ole man Mo-_  
Wait, what?  
You snap out of your daze when you suddenly hear singing. You force your eyes open again to see Dr. Strider grinning while slicing out Aradia Megido’s heart from her chest.  
“When you get no kicks from lovin’  
and you blow your top instead  
it’s a fact that you ain’t livin’  
Jack, you’re dead”  
He glances back at your dumbfounded expression.  
“What, that’s the song, right?” he says.  
“Uh... Yeah?”  
“Knew it. When you just ain’t got nobody--”  
He leans back over, scalpel in hand.  
“Since you gone and lost your head--”  
He severs the last vein with a single stroke of his blade.  
“Rigor mortis has set in, daddy--”  
He grabs the heart and pulls it out, turning back to shoot you a winning smile.  
“Jack, you’re dead.”  
For some reason, your face flushes bright red. You’re still feeling pretty nauseous. Well, your stomach is still flipping out, anyways. But it’s far less like you’re about to blow chunks and far more like...  
Oh.  
Oh hamburgers.  
“So, uh, you have a bit of an accent.”  
Dr. Strider sets Megido’s heart down on a metal tray and gives you a look.  
“When you sing, I mean. And otherwise. But more obvious when you’re... singing.”  
The doctor continues to give you a look.  
“So... Where are you from?”  
“Took you long enough to get there. Stop to smell a few roses while asking that question? Get distracted and go off to pick flowers for your granny, Red Riding Hood?”  
You find yourself blushing again.  
“S-shut up!”  
Dave smirks. Your face feels incredibly warm, as does your stomach.  
“Houston.”  
“What?”  
“Houston, Texas. Is there another Houston I don’t know about?”  
“Oh. Okay. Makes sense.”  
“Now excuse me for refusing to entertain any further personal questions, but I have a corpse in front of me in need of thorough dissection.”  
You take a few steps closer as Strider begins to examine the right lung. Even you can tell exactly where the bullet entered the lung. If Megido’s torn up heart didn’t kill her, it was the blood filling her lungs as she dragged herself across the floor to get to the phone. You swallow hard.  
Strider slices the lung open in a clean line from top to bottom and gently parts the membrane. His fingers slip in gently and he pulls out a surprisingly intact bullet.  
“Nitram?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Remember how I told you that the bullet I found in Feferi Peixes was an 8 millimeter round? Need I remind you, exactly what I had thought before.”  
“Yeah, of course.”  
“And remember how Serket--”  
“Uses an 8 mil pistol. Killed a handful of people before. Important people. Very personal situations. Got off in court. Connections and stuff. Technicalities. But always with the same custom 8 millimetre pistol.”  
“Good job, Nancy. You’re getting good at this.”  
You find yourself smiling. Dave is also smiling. And now you feel uncomfortable. But not the bad kind of uncomfortable. God, this is weird.  
After a moment that felt like hours, Dave begins to speak again.  
“But therein lies the problem. The bullet in Peixes’ body was an 8 mil.”  
“How is that a problem?”  
“This one is an 11.”  
You stop and think about this.  
“Okay. So. The killer... ran out of bullets in the first gun? Wouldn’t they have it fully loaded if they were planning to... Are you sure that it’s 11 millimeters?”  
“Damn sure.”  
“Damn.”  
You rack your brain for answers as Strider continues the autopsy. He removes the lungs and finds the last two bullets, both the same caliber. The rest of the post mortem examination goes by in a blur as you pace back and forth across the smooth tile, trying to figure out what the hell happened at the scene of the crime. There was only one bullet in the 8mm pistol used to kill Feferi Peixes. There weren’t any others found in her apartment. Only the one in her body. So the killer had two guns on them. Two completely different guns. One with a single bullet. The other most likely fully loaded.  
Maybe they didn’t expect Megido to be there. The one bullet in the first pistol was meant for her. But that would mean that the killer was absolutely sure of their ability to kill Peixes in one shot. Cocky, then. Sure of themselves. But why the second gun? Still a huge risk there. They would have to be fast. Very fast. Fast enough to switch weapons right after shooting Peixes. Fast enough to take Megido down before she could get to the phone or out the door. Must be experienced with a gun.  
That was another thing. If this was a crime of passion, a murder committed by someone fraught with emotion, devastated to the point of killing, why in the hell would they have two weapons on them? What kind of jilted lover or screwed over business associate would bring two guns? It couldn’t be. Just couldn’t. These murders were committed by a storied criminal.  
“Nitram. Hey. Sorry to interrupt your train of thought but as much as I’d like to stay here overnight with you and two sewn up stiffs, I think it would be best for us to return to our respective homes. Unless you want to stay here, or you’d rather we both head for your place or mine. Your choice.”  
“I- I’m sorry, what?”  
Dave snaps off his latex gloves and tosses them into a trash can.  
“I said I’m locking up, Nancy. Am I the only conscious human in this room, or have I been alone with corpses this whole time?”  
“That is... That is not what you said.”  
“You wouldn’t know. You weren’t listening. Off in your mind palace? You know, Sherlock Holmes is usually a lot faster than that.”  
You sneer.  
“I thought I was Nancy Drew.”  
“Finally accepting yourself. I’m so proud of you, Nancy.”  
Strider slips his sunglasses on with one hand and uses the other one to ruffle your hair.  
“That’s... I didn’t mean that!”  
The doctor chuckles and heads for the door. You pause for a second, then quickly follow. His hand is on the doorknob, but then he stops.  
“What did you figure out? Anything good?”  
You realize that in your attempt to follow him right out the door, you wound up incredibly close to him. Now you are practically stuck between Strider and the wall, his arm leaning against the door. You resist the temptation to scurry away. Don’t want to look like he’s making you feel weird. Can’t betray any weakness while his eyes are covered like that. Then you would be the vulnerable one. Can’t let him win that easily. However, you aren’t entirely sure when it became a competition.  
Dave puts on that infuriating smirk again. Probably read every one of the thoughts that ran through your head. God, how does he do that? Are you really that easy to figure out? Is it really that easy for him to make you feel whatever thing amuses him the most? Now you’re feeling angry. But you’re also feeling a little bit... something else.  
“Well? Any clues, assistant detective? Or are you going to leave all the thinking to Pyrope?”  
This makes you straighten up, eyes level with wherever his might be behind the glasses. He’s a good foot taller than you, so it’s no easy feat.  
“Actually, yeah. I’m sure the intricacies of my deductions are a little too difficult for some lab geek like you to understand, so I’ll keep it simple.”  
Strider raises his eyebrows and leans in a little closer. It takes all of your will not to shrink down away from him. Or maybe you just don’t want to.  
“Oh, really? I’m intrigued. Go on.”  
You take a deep breath.  
“The murders weren’t a crime of passion. Peixes and Megido were killed for some ulterior motive by a trained criminal.”  
“You sound pretty damn sure there, Nancy.”  
“That’s because I am sure.”  
“Big talk from a little man.”  
“Funny to hear, coming from you.”  
“Ooh, this bull’s got horns.”  
Dave’s warm breath is on your face. You can feel your knees shaking, and you begin to realize that it wasn’t the eviscerated corpse making your stomach do flips before.  
“Y-yeah,” you mutter, your eyes wandering down to his lips. “I do. W-w-wanna feel em?”  
He chuckles.  
“You bet.”  
And then his mouth is on yours.


End file.
